Three Little Words
by mystifyre
Summary: "I guess I refuse to say it to Molly because I fear it will lose its true meaning, its true power".
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: This is a short and sweet fic that I've just had to write ever since I saw Ghost in London late last year. There is a possibility that I'll come back to this and add on chapters much later. Enjoy!**

"I love you". Just three little words. That was all Molly was wanting to hear from me. As we began the short stroll back to our apartment, hand in hand, in the damp, crisp city air, I found myself regretting not uttering the words that she often spoke to me. There was a perfect opportunity to really tell her like I meant it, back at the restaurant, and I'd blown it. Instead, I'd taken the instinctive choice of saying "Ditto". As I repeated it in my mind now, I realised that it sounded childish, bland, meaningless. Yet, I've never found it easy to say the three little words that I hear people throw around daily, often without true meaning. It's like saying "I'm sorry,". It's a phrase that is overused and often carelessly thrown around in situations where it isn't truly meant. It's a phrase seen as a lifering to rescue you from an awkward, sticky situation. "I love you" is the same. I guess I refuse to say it to Molly because I fear it will lose its true meaning, its true power. And I want her to always know how much I adore her. So, I choose alternative ways of conveying my love for her, ways in which will reflect my true affection for her and will never fade, never lose their meaning. At night, when we turn off the light, I hold her close, breathing in the floral fragrance of her shampoo that lingers in her flaxen curls, feel her warm body radiate my own. In the morning, I slip carefully from the covers so as not to disturb her and prepare her favourite breakfast of scrambled eggs before I leave for another day at the office. Even just the simplest thing I do, such as holding her in my embrace as we watch TV represents my love for her, my dear Molly. Sometimes, actions can speak bigger than words. Yet, she still insisted: "Sometimes I need to hear it, Sam".

As we continued to walk in silence, I gently caressed her soft hand with my thumb. Her hazel eyes met mine and she stopped and smiled that beautiful, warm, genuine smile that I adored. She knew I loved her. Deep down in her heart, she knew I would do anything for her, that I was truly devoted to her.

"Hey you!"

A booming voice startled us both then. I scanned the dark street, searching. There appeared to be nobody around. We were alone. It was then that a broad figure swaggered out from the shadows, smirking.

"Yeah….I'm talking to you!"

His gruff voice, set in a mocking tone, was tinged with a ghetto twang that belonged to the Lower East Side. My eyes were drawn to the sinister black skulls he had inked on either shoulder that he chose to show off by wearing only a fluorescent yellow vest, accompanied by a pair of black jeans. A biting chill had suddenly developed in the air. I felt Molly's tense grip on my arm, her manicured nails sinking into my skin. The sparkle that I had seen in her eyes moments before had been snuffed out, replaced with wide-eyed fear.

"Sam, oh my God," she murmured, burrowing her head into my shoulder.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the shaky voice that was threatening to take over. I had to keep my cool. For Molly.

"Just let me handle this," I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she began to slink behind me.

"Yo' wallet!" the thug demanded, his hungry eyes on the slight bulge at my rear jean pocket. I hesitated.

"Give it to him!" was Molly's desperate plea.

"Alright, alright," I fumbled in my pocket for my wallet. Yet I knew I couldn't surrender it. It was too important. Hands shaking, I dug out all of my money and held it out to him.

"Look, you just take my money. You just leave my wallet, ok?"

I felt the sweat forming on my forehead. Please, God. Let him take the money. Please let him leave me and Molly alone. Please, God, please!

"I said, your goddamned wallet!"

The stranger lunged at me in his fury. As we scuffled, I shoved Molly further away. I didn't want her to get hurt. I had to protect her. He scratched and clawed in his attempts to snatch my wallet, still tightly gripped in my hand and he began to shout and rant in incomprehensible Spanish. Then, words I did understand.

"I kill you!"

I struggled under his weight and frantically thrashed my arms and legs, desperate to free myself. But he proved overpowering.

"Stop it please!" came Molly's begging sobs.

She didn't need to see this. I needed to get her as far away as possible so he couldn't touch her.

"Molly, get out of here! Get out of here, Molly!"

Then, I felt the man reached into his jean pocket and Molly gasped.

"Noooo!"

An explosion pierced the air, the noise reverberating in my ears, over and over. Disorientated, I took a minute or so to find my bearings and found myself in a state of confusion. I yelled after the thug as his shadow dashed away into a nearby alleyway.

"Hey! Hey!"

Then, I turn my attention to Molly, crouched on the wet ground. It frightens me to hear her sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh God, Sam!"

"Molly?"

"Call an ambulance, please!" she begged, her tears slicing through her words, choking her up.

Ambulance? That son of a bitch has hurt my Molly!

"Molly? Are you alright?!"

When she doesn't respond, continuing to tremble violently, I let my gaze wander to the crumpled blue shirt just visible in front of her. My heart misses a beat. That's my shirt, the smartest one I could find that still looked kind of casual for our dinner out. I stagger back. Molly is kneeling in front of my body. My limp, unmoving body. Several people have now approached, alerted by Molly's cries for help. One man begins administering CPR.

"Is he breathing? Come on, Sam! Breathe!"

Nausea washed over me and it was then I realized I felt stone cold.

"Molly?"

Why can't she hear me? Why can't she see that I'm standing right beside her? That I'm okay? I am breathing, I am alive. I am here, yet I feel so detached, so disconnected from me, from Molly, from our lives. Like I'm stuck in limbo…it was like I was watching my life unfold in the distance.

"Oh God…I'm losing you. Don't you leave me, Sam! Don't leave me…". Molly pleads, caressing my hair. I touch the same part of my hair, where her soft, delicate fingers are entwined.

Nothing.

Then, she proceeds to rest her head on my chest, her soft blonde curls falling gracefully across my face. I used to love how it tickled my cheeks, how it always smelled of vanilla and whipped aloe. Yet, now, when I find myself craving the comfort of having her close, I am somehow rendered senseless.

I can't feel her quivering hands, stroking my cheek…

I can't smell her luscious hair…

I can't taste her sweet kisses as her lips envelope mine…

My Molly has been stolen from me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: As promised, I have returned to this 'fic and found myself writing this chapter with surprising ease. My ideas were definitely flowing for this one. Although I will continue to write installments for this, they may not be as frequent, as my main focus for now is my _Les Misérables_ fanfic. **

Sam perched uncomfortably on the arm of the armchair in the corner of the room, watching Molly as she slept, with the knowledge that the inevitable would soon occur. Eventually, Molly would awaken from her blissful slumber. A slumber which served as her only form of escapism from reality's daily torture. Life could be harsh but death was merciless.

As soon as her eyes would open to reveal the devastating truth; that she had truly been dreaming, she would be forced to relive the pain all over again, the feeling that her life had unraveled uncontrollably and had crumbled beyond salvation. The crushing blow that she was left all alone to somehow make a desperate attempt to take the broken pieces of what remained of her life and rearrange them to make her world even slightly resemble what was there before. It could never be the same; what she once had was irreplaceable. Her whole life; her plans, her dreams, her future, had been like sand seeping through her fingers. There one minute, gone the next. Now Sam would have to stand and watch this tragic spectacle with a heavy heart, helpless.

Now, the blonde began to stir, her body shifting beneath the covers as she broke away from her dream. Her hand instinctively reached out to Sam's side of the bed and fell against the cold pillow. Her hazel eyes flickered open to the glaring sunlight as it bled through the blind and she remained motionless for several moments as her mind broke back into reality. Finally, as she regained her senses, she tilted her head in confusion and a faint whisper, barely audible, escaped her mouth.

"Sam?"

Sam, remaining motionless by the armchair, felt a lump form in his throat at the sound of her voice; such a soft, beautiful voice. He recalled one of their more relaxed dates at an inconspicuous bar where they had discussed their jobs over a few beers. Sam had met Molly at an art exhibition at the Guggenheim Museum and had discovered that she was a gifted sculptor. Perhaps having drunk a little too much beer at the bar, Sam had teased her and had exclaimed in mock surprise that he had initially assumed she was a radio host because her voice was so pleasing on the ear, with her gentle, soothing lilt. Looking back now, he cringed slightly at his ridiculous attempt at flirting, but then reminded himself that Molly had laughed; a light, bubbly sound that was like music to his ears.

Back then she had been carefree and happy. But now, her voice was tinged with sorrow and grief. Gingerly, as if any sudden movements would be liable to break her already grief-stricken soul, Molly rose from the comforting depths of the duvet and padded through into the kitchen. Although in her heart she knew the devastating truth, her mind was strongly convinced that all was normal. Although the usual enticing waft of freshly buttered toast and scrambled eggs had not caused her to awaken, she was certain Sam would be pottering around like an actor in a silent movie, being careful not to make a noise so as not to disturb her as he prepared breakfast. He'd be dressed, to her light-hearted dismay, in his usual flamboyant lounge pants, and topless to reveal his muscular figure. She would sneak up on him and wrap her arms around his broad shoulders to plant him a kiss on the cheek. Sam would flash his cheeky grin, return the kiss and they would begin another playful squabble about those hideous pants that Molly continued to threaten to throw out and Sam would insist they were "not that bad" and resign to wearing them when she was not at home. But, of course, he would continue to rebel and gleefully wear them with much pride and show the following day. But when Molly reached the doorway, she discovered the kitchen hushed and empty. There was no evidence of Sam: no dirty dishes dumped in the sink, no milk carton accidentally left out on the counter, no breakfast awaiting her. Her mind started to grasp at straws in its panic. Perhaps he had gone into work early and had been in too much of a hurry to make breakfast? Yet, upon a futile search, there was no apologetic sticky-note, signed with Sam's signature smiley. Breathless, she allowed herself to break down and for the horrific facts to overwhelm her. Sam was gone.

Finally finding the strength to compose and lift herself from the linoleum floor ten minutes later, Molly returned to the bedroom and opened Sam's chest of drawers. There it was, the lurid garment that was the item of so many laughs and jokes, neatly folded, waiting to be donned and displayed in all its glory. The tears began to flow once more as Molly crumpled to the floor, holding the soft cotton pants to her chest. At one time she had been desperate to get rid of them, now she couldn't bear the thought.

All the while, Sam had been within touching distance yet invisible. Molly was unable to feel his presence. He stood, choked with emotion and mounting anger, his hands curled into tight fists in his frustration. It had taken a single person, a single bullet, a single second, to rob him of his life and make Molly's a torturous hell. Everything had changed in just a blink of an eye for them both and there was nothing that he could do to ease the pain. But he wasn't just angry about that. He felt like he was being punished; trapped in Molly's life as a ghost, forced to watch as anguish engulfed her. All he wanted to do was hold her close, comfort and reassure her that everything would be alright and that there was a life worth living. But he couldn't even do that. There were so many words he'd left unsaid that he now so desperately wanted to say.

Desperately trying to compose herself once more, Molly dragged herself back into bed, wrapping the duvet around her body like a protective cocoon and pulled Sam's pillow close. She closed her eyes and immersed herself in the fresh, woody fragrance.

_Before long, she could envision Sam beside her, with his Cheshire cat grin, propped up with one arm, the other protectively around his acoustic guitar._

"_Not everyone can say they get serenaded every day by a strikingly handsome guy with a guitar now, can they?" he smirked._

_At that, he began strumming his guitar and broke into song. It brought a smile to Molly's face. Sam had a way of winning her around with his amusing sing-songs. He started making her laugh with his Elvis impersonations, before coming to an abrupt stop as a string snapped._

"_Ah, bummer! I've gone and busted another string…"_

_Molly chuckled and drew him close._

"_I can live."_

_They remained that way, their bodies entwined, for a long time, simply enjoying being in one another's company. Molly nestled close to his chest, feeling the comforting warmth that radiated from him. He soothingly brushed a tendril of her blonde curls back from her eyes and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek. _

"_I better be heading to work," he whispered._

But Molly didn't hear him as she drifted further and further into a fitful sleep.


End file.
